Part 97 (1/2)

The child neared her; then swerved away as if in fear, and continued her flight towards the house.

A sudden impulse seized Clodagh.

”Come here!” she called. ”Where are you going?”

For an instant the child looked too frightened to speak; then her lips parted.

”Misther a.s.shlin--beyant at Carrigmore!” she said inarticulately; and, turning, she fled onward to the house.

Clodagh stood still for a moment; then she also turned, and recrossed the gravelled pathway.

She walked forward, scarcely feeling the ground beneath her feet. Her heart beat fast; a cold premonition ran through her, chilling her blood. Something was about to happen! The inertia that lay upon her mind was to be shattered! Something was about to happen!

As she reached the hall door, she saw the child vanish into the stable-yard by the small latched door in the great wooden gate; and saw Mick, escaped from confinement, come careering towards her. But for once she took no heed of his manifestations. Scarcely even noticing that he followed her, she pa.s.sed into the hall, and from thence to the dining-room. There she stood for a long time listening--listening intently. At last the sound she instinctively waited for reached her--the sound of a sharp, wailing cry. With a frightened gesture she put her hands over her face; then let them drop to the back of a chair that stood beside the centre table.

She stood holding weakly to this chair, her limbs trembling, her face white, while the wailing sound drew nearer, growing more spasmodic as it approached. At last the door was thrust wide open, and Hannah burst into the room, her face blanched, tears streaming from her eyes, her whole air demoralised.

”Miss Clodagh, Masther Larry!” she muttered inarticulately--”Masther Larry!”

Clodagh held to the back of the chair.

”What is it?”

”Gone! Drownded!”

Clodagh swayed a little.

”Drowned!” she echoed in a faint voice.

”He nivver went home at all last night. And to-day mornin' they found the little boat capsized beyant at the head. O G.o.d, help the poor mother! What'll the poor woman do at all?”

”Drowned!” Clodagh said again--”drowned! Larry drowned!”

Hannah stepped forward, as though she expected her to fall; but she motioned her away.

”How did it happen?” she asked in a vague, thin voice.

”'Twas the storm! Sure, 'twas the storm!”

”But Larry was the best sailor in Carrigmore!”

She said the words involuntarily; but as they left her lips, they brought into being a new thought. She stood upright, and by a strange, slow process of suggestion, her eyes travelled to the mantelpiece, where the bundle of notes still protruded from under the clock.

What if Larry had quailed before the thought of confessing his losses to the querulous mother, who could so ill spare the money he had squandered? What if Larry had not fought the storm last night as it might have been fought? She suddenly contemplated last night's play from Larry's point of view--contemplated Larry's losses by light of the hard monetary straits that Ireland breeds.

Her blood seemed to turn to water; she felt like one beyond the pale of human emotion or superhuman help.

”Leave me to myself, Hannah!” she said faintly. ”I want to be alone.”

”Lave you? But, my darlin'----”